


not like it hurts much anyway

by hopeintheashes



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Redoing the tags which should probably go in this order:, see end note for additional tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29735685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: Some habits are hard to break.Title from "Attention" by The Academy Is...
Relationships: Eddie Diaz/Ana Flores (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 326





	not like it hurts much anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Written in one fell swoop while recovering from the second round of the covid vaccine, because this idea wouldn't let me go.

. . .

It's not what he should be thinking about, not with fire roaring in his ears. Shouldn't be picturing Ana, gorgeous, perfect Ana, at brunch with Eddie and wishing it was— 

"An— 'ne— 'r— me—" Chim's voice over the radio, but it's garbled static, and it's in that moment, reaching for the walkie, searching through the smoke and the flames, that the floor gives way and the bottom drops out of the world. 

It's a blur, replaying it later in his head. That's the concussion, he knows; the way everything's slow motion and jump-cuts and the narrative thread keeps getting lost. What's clear, though, then and now, are Eddie's eyes. So close, wide and scared with his knuckles sharp on Buck's sternum. _("Fuck off, what—" "Got him back, he's talking—")_ Trained on him from too far away, talking to Bobby but never taking his gaze off of Buck. Close again, focused, hands on Buck's shoulders, his cheeks. Intense when Buck opens his eyes in a hospital bed and sees Eddie before Eddie sees him. 

Eddie drives him home— home as in Eddie and Christopher's, which makes him want to cry, the concussion fucking with his emotions. Eddie walks him inside with a hand at his elbow and then he's on the couch with his boys at his side and it's like before, and some small part of him whispers, _see, that's all it took,_ and he can't quite tell himself it's wrong. 

. . .

He's back on shift later in the week, maybe a tiny bit earlier than the doctor actually cleared him, but. That's okay. No one needs to know. A rope rescue, "of fucking course," Eddie's voice playing at exasperated but so, so fond, filling up the empty cavity of his chest. He looks up at Eddie and he can hear the rush of blood in his ears with every heartbeat, and goddamn it, why did he have to go and fall in love with his best friend. 

"Buck!" Because Eddie's focused on the work at hand, not on the photos Ana had sent from her trip up the coast, and he can see coming what Buck doesn't until it's too late. The rope snaps tight and it catches his hand at a weird angle and he can't help but groan at the way his wrist pulls. 

"I've got it!" he radios up to Eddie through gritted teeth. And he does. Down the side of the building, and in through the broken glass, and out again, the young woman in the harness attached to his whispering _thank you, thank you, thank you_ all the way up to the roof, eyes closed tight against the drop to the street below. 

"Hey." Once they've got the victim handed off. "Let me see that wrist." In so goddamn close again, those deep brown eyes, fingers brushing against his. 

He hisses when Eddie pulls off his glove to check the damage, and he's vaguely aware that he could have stopped the sound; could have been stoic and still, but then would Eddie's eyebrows be coming down the way they are now, concern and focus and nothing, nothing, nothing but him? 

"You should get that checked." Walking him toward the ambulance with a hand at the small of his back. "If Hen thinks you should get it x-rayed, I'll take you to urgent care. Hey—" because Buck's blinking fast— "are you dizzy? From the concussion, still? Here, sit down." Looking around, about to get on the radio, and then spotting— "Hen! Come over here for a sec?" 

_From the concussion?_ He can't rule it out. Objectively, that's probably it; the concussion plus the way his wrist feels sprained if not broken, but what feels more like the truth is, _from you._

. . .

It's not broken, thank god, and he's back at the start of their next cycle of 24-hour shifts. They're at hour 16 when Buck flops down on the couch. Yes, fine, he'll admit that he may have done it a bit dramatically; god, Chim, no need for that eyeroll. 

"You good, Buck?" Hen, with her eyebrows raised. 

"Yeah." He huffs a sigh. "Just— thinking." A sideways glance at Eddie, who's been showing off pictures of Christopher with Ana that make Buck's heart feel like it's going to tear in two. 

Chim's expression softens a little bit. "Stuff with your parents? Maddie was saying that even though things are a little better it's been kind of a rough week. Between her and them," he adds quickly. "Not that she's been... talking to me about you." The way Chim can't quite meet his eyes tells Buck that that might not be entirely true, but whatever. Least of his worries right now. 

"Yeah." Easier than actually trying to explain. 

That gets Eddie's attention. "Sorry, man, that sucks." Phone down. Leaning in. "You want to talk about it?" 

Buck shrugs in that way that means _yes,_ and lets the headache that's been building show on his face, and Eddie's eyes are focused and sharp, and _god,_ it's like a drug shot straight into his veins. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't not. 

The moment gets broken by the ring of Eddie's phone, even though it's late, and the way Eddie's eyes warm when he sees the caller ID, A-n-a, upside down but perfectly visible in Buck's field of view. 

"I'm so sorry," Eddie tells him, and it sounds genuinely apologetic. "I can call her back, it's fine—" 

Buck's already waving him off. "No, go ahead and answer. I'm good." 

A searching look, for just a moment, and then he's answering the call, his voice soft and a small smile glowing in the night, and he's gone. That headache really is setting in now. Chim yawns and gets up as well. "Guess I might as well try for sleep now. Not gonna get any when the baby comes." 

Buck tips his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He jumps when he feels the couch sink next to him. Hen, looking at him with concern and pity and something else that he can't quite nail down. 

She's quiet for a minute, then holds out her hand, palm up, on the cushion between them. Buck takes a deep breath and blows it out, and puts his hand in hers. Laces their fingers. Hen's other hand on top, holding his hand steady in both of hers. "I see you," she says quietly. "Hell, I've been you." A surge of shame. Hen squeezes his hand. "You have two choices here, Buckaroo. You can say something—" instant panic sweat at the thought— "or you can decide not to. But what you can't do—" and there's this fierceness in there that he wasn't prepared for— "is whatever the hell this is about." She gestures up and down like she's encompassing his melodrama from a few minutes ago, and the concussion, and the ace bandage on his other hand.

He pulls back from her, affronted, even though he knows she's right. "You think I fucked up on the rope on purpose? Fell through a floor on purpose? What the hell, Hen?" He crosses his arms, and his hand is cold without hers. 

Hen doesn't take the bait. "I think that the survival strategies that got us through childhood are hard-wired in a way that's tough to switch off, and that they come breaking back through when we feel threatened." 

He's looking up at the ceiling instead of at her, but he feels the couch shift again when she stands. "Tell him or don't, Buck. But don't get yourself killed trying to walk that knife edge in between." 

. . .

"Do you want to come hang out with Christopher tonight?" Waiting for the shift change. Breathing in the warm early-morning air. 

"Just Christopher?" He means it to be teasing, but he's not sure it quite lands. 

"Well," a shy smile, "I'm thinking of taking Ana out. Dinner, drive-in movie, the whole thing." 

"Wow," Buck manages, and he must not be making too strained of a face because Eddie's still soft and floating. 

"Yeah. I think... I think this is worth a try." 

"Yeah." Blinking fast, and getting himself back under control. "Yeah, for sure. I'd love to come hang out with Chris. As long as you want. What time should I get there?" 

"Five? I can put in a pizza order before I go, or you can get whatever you want delivered and I'll Venmo you for it after." 

"Pizza sounds good." Automatic. "And yeah, I'll be there by five." 

Usually, if there's any possibility that he'll be at Eddie's place late, he brings his duffel bag just in case; it's got a toothbrush and some workout clothes to sleep in and a phone charger and whatever. Tonight, though, something stops him. It just seems presumptuous to assume that he might still get to spend the night. 

Eddie's pacing nervously when he gets there, dressed in slacks and a sweater and just— 

"Damn," he says, instead of hello. 

"You think? Not too much? Or not enough?" 

"Perfect," he says, and has to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

Christopher makes his way into the living room. "You look fancy, Dad." 

"Thanks, mijo." Eddie pulls him in for a hug and kisses the top of his head. "Be good for Buck. I'll be back after you're already in bed, but I'll come in and say goodnight even if you're asleep, okay?" 

"Okay. Have fun. Love you." 

"Love you." Eddie pats down his pockets to make sure he has his keys and wallet and phone, and smooths his hair, and blows out a breath. "Okay. Here I go." 

Buck smiles at him, and it's bittersweet but he means it when he says, "You'll do great." 

Christopher watches Eddie leave, and then turns to Buck. "Is my dad going on a date with Ms. Flores?" 

Um. "What did he tell you he was doing?" 

"Going to dinner and a movie with a friend. But you're the only friend he would do that with. So it's got to be a date. Right?" 

Buck can feel the way his face twists at that, and brings it steady again. "I think that's for your dad to talk to you about, bud." 

"So that's a yes." Christopher goes to the couch and flips on the tv. Switches to the input for video games, and holds up two choices to Buck. 

Buck points to Mario Kart and sits down beside him on the couch. "What would you... think about that?" 

Christopher shrugs. "Ms. Flores is nice. I liked having her for a teacher. Weird to think about my dad dating her, though." He wrinkles up his nose. 

"Yeah," Buck says, and grabs the controllers, and starts the game so he doesn't have to talk about it any more. 

They play games and eat pizza and raid the freezer for ice cream and put on a movie, and Buck lets Christopher stay up past his bedtime, which just means that he's nearly asleep on the couch by the time Buck calls it and it doesn't take any convincing to get him to go to bed. 

_how's it going?_ he texts once Christopher's set. It gets a read receipt, but no reply. 

He paces the house for a while, cleaning up the pizza plates and the ice cream bowls and starting the dishwasher. He's not used to being alone over here. Not at night like this. He gets a beer and turns on the game, just like he would if Eddie were here, but the living room feels empty and the alcohol doesn't sit quite right. He puts it down and stares at the tv and imagines what Eddie and Ana are doing right now; wonders if their hands are meeting, if they'd kiss on the second date. The thought is starting to make him feel sick. He lays down on the couch and closes his eyes, but the world rocks like a ship at sea and he has to get up and get a drink of water. Take some deep breaths. He gives up on the beer and makes some mint tea instead. Goes back to the couch and stares at the read receipt until his vision blurs. He feels like shit. Did he feel this bad earlier? No, not when he was with Christopher. Maybe it's just a holdover from the concussion. Seems like it would have been too long, but his head is really starting to hurt. Everything, actually. By the time he finally gets a text back that says _everything went great, see you in an hour,_ his muscles are aching in a way that feels like fever.

Oh. 

He thinks about texting Eddie to tell him, but what would that do? Make him leave the movie early and still get home at about the same time? He shivers, and resolves not to say anything about it to Eddie, Hen's words still ringing in his head. 

He's half-asleep under a throw blanket when he hears Eddie's key in the lock, and he can't bring himself to even sit up. 

"Hey," Eddie calls, quiet in the darkness. "You still awake?" 

Buck can't think of anything to say other than the truth, so he just waits until Eddie gets his shoes off and drops down on his heels between the couch and the coffee table. 

"Buck?" 

Buck blinks up at him, squinting in the dim light. 

"You okay?" 

Buck just lets his eyes slip closed again. He hears Eddie pick up the nearly-full beer bottle and the nearly-empty tea mug and put them both back down. He can practically hear the frown that goes along with it. Another moment in the silence, like Eddie's studying him, and then Buck shivers hard and Eddie's hand is on his forehead and it feel like bliss.

A sharp intake of breath. "Shit, Buck, why didn't you tell me you were sick? I would've rescheduled." Eddie's fingers in his hair, now; smoothing over his temples and between his brows. 

"I'm okay." He says it without breaking down into tears at the touch, so that's something, at least. 

"You're not." Palm flat on his forehead again, like Eddie's checking to make sure nothing's changed in the last five seconds, which just might actually make him cry. 

"You don't have to worry. It's not contagious." Still not opening his eyes. 

"What?" 

"I just... get stress fevers sometimes. It's fine. They go away." Such a long silence that he does force his eyes to open so he can get a look at Eddie. 

"From what?" Eddie's still sitting on his heels. His feet must be going to sleep, but he doesn't move. 

"From stress," Buck says, and he knows that's a little petulant but he can't help it, not with the truth right there, threatening to break free. 

"From your parents?" 

Buck shrugs, noncommittal. 

"From something else? Did something happen?" He hasn't taken his hands off of Buck this whole time. 

_You. You happened. You happened, and blew up my whole goddamn life in the best possible way, and now that's about to disappear._ He shrugs again, and blinks back tears. 

"You don't have to tell me now." Gentle. "But will you eventually?" 

"Maybe," Buck whispers, and the tears fall, and Eddie's lips are on his forehead, brief and soft and cool, and then he's getting to his feet, groaning a little in a way that suggests that his feet had, in fact, gone numb. 

"Do you want me to pull out the couch? It doesn't have sheets on it right now, but it would only take me a couple of minutes to get it set up." 

"No, it's fine." He pulls the blanket tighter and shivers at the absence of Eddie's touch. 

"Okay, well, I'll at least get you some more blankets and a real pillow. I'm just going to check in on Christopher, and then I'll be right back." 

"Okay." _Tell him or don't._ Hen's words in his head. No reason to decide now. It might not even come to anything. They can all just stay status quo. 

Eddie's back with blankets and a pillow and a fancy forehead thermometer, because that's the sort of thing parents have, and when Eddie's phone dings with an incoming text he glances at it (A-n-a on the message ID) and puts it away without even unlocking the screen. The next beep is the thermometer, the rhythmic alert for a low-grade fever, and he gets a disapproving, worried sound and Eddie's eyes on him and only him.

_You can't keep walking that knife's edge—_

Maybe not forever, no.

Just for a little while.

. . .

**Author's Note:**

> Additional tags, down here for spoilery purposes: Ambiguous Ending


End file.
